


Tealight

by bobross



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Slavery, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Omegaverse, Rape/Non-con References, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-04
Updated: 2012-05-04
Packaged: 2017-11-04 20:13:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/397766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bobross/pseuds/bobross
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He is naked most of the time. The veils he's permitted in public are so sheer he burns even in reflected sunlight.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tealight

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Tealight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/596914) by [Amorph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amorph/pseuds/Amorph)



Careworn hands peel the torn, stained silks from his skin. He stands naked. He is naked most of the time. The veils he's permitted in public are so sheer he burns even in reflected sunlight.

Calluses and deft fingers. Flat palms spread over his shoulder blades, assessing. Dark smudges at his hips; reddened flesh gone tacky and sour. He tried not to limp through the door. It felt too much like mockery.

_He shouldn't be so rough with you._

He sighs, tips his head back slightly. They've been over this before, again and again, in darkness and daylight alike. It's the same dreary argument. Boring. Better things to be doing.

He feels more than he hears the answering breath from behind. Dry fingertips contemplate his swollen wrists. Five broken nails, one torn completely free of the bed.

_Does it hurt?_

No, it doesn't hurt. (Yes, more than anything.) It isn't so much a question as an acknowledgement; an expression of care, after so many days of lonely brutality.

He turns abruptly and heads for the low bath. Footsteps whisper in his wake, unhesitating. There will be steam and soothing oils, lather in his hair, lambswool delicately prying the grime from his skin. He gingerly steps into the water: gingerly, as his thighs tremble and the space between is one mount shy of bloodied. His nostrils flare with pain. He's met with the fragrance of anaesthetic herbs.

The water laps about his calves and no higher. He will stand; his feet are sturdy and painless, unused for the past week. His hand is gently pushed aside when he reaches for the lambswool.

_I'll do it. You know I will._

He bites his lip harshly, re-opens the wounds there. Winces. The next hour unfolds in his mind. Lather and clean scents; cool poultices for his wounds; rich broth and weak wine; down pillows with silken covers; dreamless sleep. Callused hands working even after, tending the last of his hurts while he slumbers, untangling his hair as it dries.

The large brass ladle tips over his shoulders, sluicing hot water down the length of him. He hisses irritably at the sudden sting of abrasions. One blunt thumbtip rubs across his nape.

_Shh. Shh._

He quiets. Sometimes he thinks it ironic, that the only voice capable of shushing him is not a voice at all. Hasn't been a voice, not since that long-ago spate of defiance over a sister's forcible addition to the Queen's retinue. 

—A sister who now spends her days drowning in wine and illicit lovers, who rarely crosses the courtyard to the King's harem halls. Who cannot face the useless sacrifice, even for comfort's and family's sakes.

It infuriates him if he thinks about it too closely. He bristles. Tenses without meaning to.

The thumb returns to his nape, stroking his damp curls coaxingly.

_Shh. Not now. You're thinking too hard._

He huffs and closes his eyes. The join of his neck and shoulder is squeezed, careful pressure between lines of black bruising. He doesn't think he's imagining the dry amusement in the gesture. Amusement, affection, sympathy—soft things to cover that old helpless fury. Like watching a tealight blaze long after it should have drowned itself.

_Come on. You'll feel better after._

He sighs, acquiesces. Tips his head back once more. A useless sacrifice, perhaps, but he can't be sorry for it. "You're better off without a tongue, John," he murmurs. "It would only get in your way."

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a kinkmeme [prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/18842.html?thread=112053146#t112053146):
> 
> _Slave!AU_
> 
> _Omega!Sherlock is the concubine of a powerful Alpha. Beta!John is his handler, taking care of his injuries after matings, keeping him busy, dressing him for court, choosing scents for him to wear, feeding him... etc._
> 
> _They are both in love with the other, but hide their feelings in fear of being caught and punished._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: Tealight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/530580) by [AfroGeekGoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AfroGeekGoddess/pseuds/AfroGeekGoddess)




End file.
